It only takes thirty minutes for me to realize this is the worst best idea I've ever had.

I honestly expected it to take less time than that, but the trainer—Tate, his name is, and he looks like a Tate—talks with me for fifteen of those minutes, getting a feel for my usual fitness plan and what motivates me most. It's nice, actually. I've had team trainers and personal trainers who really didn't care about what worked best for me. Back in college I remember being pushed so hard, I was crying and puking by the end of a session.

But Tate seems genuinely concerned with getting me into shape in a way that's achievable. He takes a couple minutes after we talk and rattles off a plan, and I approve all of it, not finding anything out of the ordinary. Lots of cardio, some resistance training, building up my legs and my core.

It's that last one that finally gets me to look over at Shane, who’s decided to claim one of the tiny gym's three treadmills. He's worked up to a jog, and the back of his shirt is a little dark from his sweat, but it's not too distracting just yet. Especially since Shane's preference for briefs doesn't reward me with much of a show when I glance discreetly downward.

It isn't long into my warmup that I start to notice his shirt is clinging to him. His tight, solid muscles that I've traced so many times with my fingers and tongue are outlined perfectly by thin, ash-gray cloth.

My gaze roves over his arms, up to his shoulders. I wish I was either in front of him or behind him, but I'm doing my own cardio on an elliptical just two machines down from him, so my view is limited.

It's definitely enough to draw Tate's attention, though.

"Focus, Morrison, or I'm turning the resistance up," he barks, because I told him I do need to be hounded when my mind wanders.

I focus on my workout, and he gradually cranks the resistance and the incline, making me fight for every push. My legs burn, I'm breathing heavy, and my shirt is soaked through with sweat.

And maybe the worst part of it all is that I can feel Shane's eyes on me. He can look all he wants; Tate's not going to reprimand him at all.

Tate lets me come down on the treadmill, the quick jog way harder than it should be. My legs are jelly already, and I'm realizing what Shane's said is true: Farm work and fucking really don't prepare you for this kind of a workout.

Shane's already moved onto a machine circuit before I get over there, and when he catches me watching him, he deliberately slows his movements so I can see every flex of his compact muscles.

"Asshole," I mouth, but he just winks at me.

He'll pay for it tonight. If I can ever move again.

Tate works me hard, making me do pretty demanding reps without much time in between them. I feel like I'm back on the college field again, getting a taste of what true conditioning is like after only minimal gym time in high school.

But it is like riding a bike in some ways, as cliché as that sounds. My body isn't that out of practice, and my muscles remember how to do what's expected of them. It's exhausting, and everything's going to ache for a while, but I'm able to push myself in a way that would've made even my dad satisfied.

With the exception of my quick, furtive glances at Shane, at least. Tate punishes me for every one, making me do push-ups, crunches, and at one point, up-downs until my mind is laser-focused again.

I'm sure Tate will tell me I need to coordinate different gym times with Shane in the future, but having him there actually motivates me. I want to do well for him. I want him to see the things I was born to do; the athlete I've spent my whole life training to be. I know he's not a huge football fan, but I also know he can appreciate the dedication it takes to be good at a sport.

After ninety minutes of exercising and another half hour or so of hanging around the gym, encouraging me with his smiles and his single-minded attention, Shane goes home to finish the day's work at the ranch.

My performance drops off a little, and I think Tate just puts it down to me getting tired earlier than I should, but I know the truth. If Shane keeps coming to the gym with me, I'm going to have to push myself hard during the first half of my session, just so I stay at the level Tate and the Armada need me to be at.

"You're further along than I thought you'd be," Tate says after we finish up.

I squirt some water into my hair, trying to cool off. The AC is running pretty well in the gym, but I still feel like I've been working nonstop under the midday summer sun.

"Thanks," I say, trying to catch my breath. "Been working on a ranch for the past couple of weeks, so I think I'm better off than I would've been."

To my surprise, Tate—who hasn't cracked a smile the whole time he's been here—actually smirks. "I'd work at a ranch too if all the owners looked like that."

I let out an unguarded laugh, both because I wasn't expecting that comment at all, and… well, because it's true.

Tate doesn't let the professionalism slip beyond that, launching into his plans for the rest of the week and giving me his cell number and the number of the hotel he's staying at in case I need to reach him, but I wear a small smile because I know Russ is behind this. Only he'd be considerate enough to send me a trainer who isn't going to have any hangups about my personal life.

* * *

After a shower and change of clothes at the gym, I head over to Gracie’s Place and slide into a booth, waiting for Shane. I texted him earlier and asked him to meet me for a nice, greasy dinner that would totally undo all the hard work we just put in.

I realize as I look at the menu that I was only half-joking.

The diner's pretty busy tonight, so Eric doesn't pop out of the kitchen all that often. He does say hi to me, and greets Shane when he comes in, but the near-constant string of orders seem to keep him busier than the first day I came to town.

As Shane sits across from me, I can't help but think about how far we've come since then. I don't think he's a crazy stalker anymore, for one, and I don't think he sees me as some full-of-himself prima donna. At least when we're not in the bedroom.

Things are good. Comfortable. I don't have any fears about lacing my fingers with his as we both look through the menu, and nobody seated around us even seems to pay it any mind. I can see now why Shane and Jake both ended up here. It's a nice place.

"So how'd it go after I left? Get anything else done, or were you too overcome by lust to function?" he teases.

"That was cruel, you know. You could sneak out to your truck and stroke one out if you wanted to. I was stuck getting ordered around by Mr. Steel Thighs himself."

Shane's lips quirk. "As if you don't like that."

"Only when you do it," I reply, giving him a heated look.

Shane's tongue sweeps over his lips and my mouth is suddenly way drier than it should be. I reach for my water with my free hand and remind myself we need to actually get through a meal before we burn a few thousand calories together.

"It went well," I say. "He said I was in better shape than he thought I'd be, so I'm sure I can get to where the team needs me to be within a month."

Shane's brows lift. "A month?"

"Practice starts soon."

Lines are etched into his face that I wish I could soothe away. Despite our talk, I know he's still concerned about me being away so much. I am too, honestly.

The waitress comes to take our order, though, and Shane is quick to move on to something else after she's gone.

"Having me there wasn't too distracting, was it? In all seriousness."

I shake my head, my fingers curling tighter around his. "It was good to have the moral support. How'd you feel after your workout?"

"Tired," he says with a laugh, taking a sip of his drink. "But good. Better than I have in a while."

I smile at that, glad for his answer. Sure, it means he'll be there more often, but if this is going to help rebuild his confidence as a rider, I'm all for it.

As I let myself think about that, I realize I can't wait to see Shane up in the saddle again. I've watched some old videos of him racing, and it's truly astounding. There's no question it takes an insane amount of athleticism and concentration to keep control of a horse in the middle of a high-intensity race.

And in every video and picture I saw, Shane just looked like he was born and bred for that, the same way the horses were. It's a thought that strikes me now as I look at him. If he wants to, he can do it again. I can support him the same way he's supporting me now.

"If things go well with Apollo… do you think you'll consider going back to racing?"

Shane stiffens instantly, and for a second I feel like I've made a huge mistake. But after a few moments he relaxes, and I see him let out a breath.

"I don't know. I've thought about it." He shrugs a little. "I think about it all the time. I just… don't know if I'll be strong enough to go back on the track."

I grasp his hand tighter and look into his eyes, leaning over the table a bit so I can be sure he hears me; hears how adamant I am about this. "I know you can. You took a horse that was probably going to be euthanized and you brought him back to what he's supposed to be."

"He's not there yet," Shane says, glancing away from me. "And I'm a lot more broken than Apollo ever was, Travis."

That admission pierces right through my heart, and I honestly feel a surge of… anger. Not at Shane. Not really. I'm angry at the demons that are plaguing him; at whatever's telling him he's not good enough to do this.

"Do you want to race again?" I ask him, my gaze locking with his.

"Yeah. Of course I do," he says softly. "But it's not that easy."

I know there are lots of people who would say it is. I've had coaches who've told me all I need to do is work hard and believe in myself. Even my dad was a huge proponent of mind over matter, in all things.

But in my experience, it's just not true.

"I know."

Those two words draw his eyes back to me. His brow furrows, and his wrist twists just slightly so that his fingers curl a little more tightly with mine.

"Whatever it takes to get you back there, however long it takes, I'll be with you 100%," I tell him, my words emphatic.

Shane swallows, and I can see the slightest shimmer of moisture in his eyes before he blinks it away.

"That means a lot. More than I can say." He lets out a long breath and offers me a smile. "These workouts are a start. Maybe… I don't know. Maybe I'll step it up a little bit. See if I can get Tate to start zapping you with a cattle prod or something."

I laugh at that, a huge grin overtaking my features. I know he's not saying he's going to sign himself up for the next big race, but I also know how huge this is. He hasn't taken a step like this in five years, and I can't help but feel incredibly proud of us both.

"I'd like to see you try," I tell him, a challenge in my eyes.

And I really, really would.